


The Fine Art of Photojournalism (or, Five Questions Miguel Diaz Asks about Gary Hobson, and One Question Gary Hobson Asks about Miguel Diaz)

by akamarykate



Category: Early Edition
Genre: 5 Times, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 10:18:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8887126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akamarykate/pseuds/akamarykate
Summary: Miguel Diaz has a few questions regarding Gary Hobson.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Enigel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enigel/gifts).



> Takes place in the immediate aftermath of S4's "False Witness," and goes forward from there.

WHAT

The first time Miguel notices the cat, really notices it and connects it to Hobson, it's the day Joey and his pal take Hobson hostage. They're at the hospital--well, Joey, Miguel, and Hobson are. Raymond Pritchett's already in booking. In the aftermath, Hobson tries to slip away like he always does.

"You should track him down. I want to know as much about the guy as you do," Joey says, slurring some of the words now that the pain killers are kicking in. "There's something about him that's, I don't know, off. Don't get me wrong, I like him, but—"

"What's his deal?" Miguel finishes. He looks toward the door.

"Hey man, I'm not going anywhere for a while." Joey's eyes are half closed already.

"I'll be here when you wake up," Miguel promises him. "With a lawyer."

"And my sketchbook?"

"You got it."

Joey nods, his eyes closing. Miguel waits until his breathing evens out before he ducks out into the hallway where there is, of course, no trace of Hobson. The guy is everywhere trouble can land while shit's going down, but he disappears when it's over, and this time, Miguel wants to know what he's up to. This time, he has a right to know. Joey's his brother, after all. What was Hobson doing following him to a gas station in the middle of nowhere? How the hell did he even know where to go?

Miguel's wondering if Pritchett gave him more of a knock to his head than he thought, because he gets lost in the hospital corridors trying to catch up with Hobson. He rounds a corner toward the staircase--with a physique like that and a knack for disappearing, Hobson's not an elevator guy--and sees the door to the stairs gliding shut. "Gotcha," he breathes, but when he pushes the door open just before it latches closed, there's nobody there, no clunk of footsteps in the stairwell. 

Just a soft meow.

The cat sits on its haunches at the bottom of the first set of stairs, blinking balefully up at Miguel. It's tannish-almost-orange, with faint stripes, and Miguel doesn't know much about cats but he's pretty sure they're not supposed to be hanging out in hospitals. "Hobson?" he calls down the stairwell, and he's not sure if he's asking the cat where Hobson went, or asking if the cat _is_ Hobson, but either way, he doesn't get an answer. The cat sits there staring at him as if he's supposed to do something, which is ridiculous, because the only thing Miguel needs to do right now is file a story that won't have an ending because Hobson's taken off again. 

Maybe he should get a brain scan while he's here. 

When he finally finds Joey's room again, Detective Armstrong is standing just outside the door, arms crossed, coat hanging off his shoulders like a superhero's cape.

"Truth, justice, and the American way," Miguel mutters under his breath, but fixes on a wide smile. "Detective! You come to arrest my brother again? Double jeopardy is still a thing, right?"

"Last I checked. No, I'm here looking for—" He breaks off, looks around at shin level like he's hoping he'll see something he can kick. "What's the point?" 

"Hobson." It's not a question. Armstrong's been involved with Hobson a lot before; he shows up in a good portion of the reports in the folder with Hobson's name on it stashed in Miguel's file cabinet at home; he learned his lesson about keeping it at work when Scanlon extorted it from him. 

Armstrong shrugs, nods once. 

"He's long gone, at least for now."

"Typical."

Miguel pushes open the door to Joey's room long enough to make sure his brother's still asleep. There's a uniformed cop in the corner, reading a paper. He's probably there to make sure Joey doesn't escape, but the only way the kid's going anywhere is if he sleepwalks. Miguel holds up his phone. "Call me if he wakes up." Then he turns to Armstrong. "Detective, can I buy you a drink?"

They end up in the hospital cafeteria, at a far corner away from knots of nurses and doctors on their breaks and the occasional table of families looking worried or hopeful or just plain exhausted. He needs to call his parents, Miguel knows, but not right now. This is the best chance he's had to tease out the mystery that is Gary Hobson, and he's not about to let it go. Besides, thinking about Hobson gives him something other than his failure to get Joey on the right path.

He buys a couple coffees and sits across from Armstrong. To Armstrong's credit, he asks the first question. "Your brother going to be okay?"

Miguel nods. "Yeah, thanks. I mean, he's going to do time, but he'll come out of it ready to take advantage of a second chance. I'll make sure of it." He takes a long pull of his coffee, lukewarm and bitter. "What do you want with Hobson?"

"Answers." His tone is weary, defeated, the tone of someone who's sure no such answers will be forthcoming. "Not likely."

"He's slippery, that's for sure."

"How well do you know the guy?"

Miguel explains the ducks, and the pickles, and Bruce Bryce. It's weird, trading stories about a guy who isn't there, and at some point the unfairness of going behind Hobson's back starts to niggle at him, and it's not like he's getting much from Armstrong in return. "Look, it's not that I don't trust the guy," he finally says. "I just can't figure him out. It's like he has to be part of the story, any story." Miguel thinks back to their first encounter, when Hobson didn't want to be Duck Man. "Whatever's going in in Chicago, big or small, he can't help interjecting himself."

"It's more than that," Armstrong counters, then looks like he wishes he hadn't. 

"You first ran into him, what, a couple years ago?"

"Last year."

"Right, right, that apartment fire. Guy fell off the roof when Hobson tried to save him. What was he doing there?"

Armstrong presses his lips together, looks to the side, shakes his head. Miguel's been at enough tough interviews to know when a subject's done spilling. "You're a reporter, right?" Armstrong asks instead of giving him an answer. "You're better off waiting for the news to happen, not go out and try to make it yourself. You saw what happened to Scanlon when he got too nosy."

"It wasn't poking into Hobson's life that killed Scanlon," Miguel points out. "It was your partner."

"Look." Armstrong lifts his eyes from his paper cup, pinning Miguel with a keen stare. "He saved my wife's life. He saved my life. Sounds like he saved you from Bruce Bryce and his goon. He convinced your brother to give himself up, or he'd be looking at a whole lot more time, if he'd even survived the gas station. And trust me, you're not the only one who wants to know what he's up to. But if you ask too many questions about Hobson, it leads to trouble. "

"What are you saying?"

Armstrong takes a sweetener packet from a glass container and taps it on the table a few times, then sends it skittering across the table and over the edge with a flick of his wrist. "Every time I start investigating him, stuff happens. Stuff like today. Curiosity killed the cat, Diaz."

"Yeah, about that. Have you ever seen his—"

Armstrong shakes his head and stands, slipping on his coat. "You want to be a detective, the next class at the academy starts in September. But Hobson's a dead end. There's nothing down that road but madness. Take care of your brother and leave Hobson to do whatever the hell it is he does. It's better for your own sanity that way."

* * * * *

WHEN

A few weeks later, Miguel sees the cat again. He's pulled his car to the side of the road across the Dearborn Street Bridge, hazards flashing, because he heard a report of a jumper on his police scanner. Weird place to jump from; the fall won't kill most people, but the pollution in the river just might. It seems more like a cry for help than a serious suicide attempt. 

The first thing he notices when he gets out of his Pontiac isn't the jumper. It's a cat—a marmalade striped, spooky-looking cat—perched outside the semicircle of curious onlookers watching the jumper.

Watching. Not pulling the guy away from the railing. Miguel shakes his head. Chicagoans. They all want to be in on the news, to be photographed and interviewed and sound-byted on WGN, but God and all his saints forbid they actually try to intervene in it.

Or maybe, he realizes half a second later, they aren't trying to haul the guy away because he won't let them.

"Get back!" The man won't look their way, but his arm swings an arc behind him, waving them off. "I'm telling you, you all have to stay out of this."

Miguel has his lens cap off and is pushing his way through the gawkers, ignoring the sharp green gaze the cat fixes on him, when he recognizes the voice. And the lumberjack print of the guy's shirt. 

"Hobson, what are you doing?" Granted, a lot could have happened since the last time he saw him, but Hobson's never seemed the type to take his own life, not even when every cop in the city was gunning for him. Miguel lets his camera swing free against his chest as he reaches for the plaid-clad arm and catches it mid-swing with both hands, pulling Hobson around to face him.

"Stay back, will ya? I don't need anyone else getting—Diaz?" Startled, Hobson loses his balance and grabs at the railing with both hands, yanking free of Miguel's grasp.

"You--you're not trying to jump," Miguel stutters out. Intentional or not, for half a second he was sure Hobson was headed into the drink. 

"Of course I'm not—well, yeah, I am, but not like—" Hobson shuts his eyes, shakes his head. "Just back off, okay? Get these people out of the way." As if his words are an invitation, the crowd presses in closer.

"If you're his friend, you have to stop him," a woman behind Miguel says desperately.

"Hobson, I don't know what's happened, but you can't do this. You gotta live, man." Miguel thrusts an arm at the cat, who's still staring at the both of them. "Live for your cat if nothing else."

For a split second, the desperation on Hobson's face is replaced by consternation. He takes a step forward. "Let me tell you something about that cat. It gets me into more trouble than it solves—"

"Your cat is supposed to solve problems?"

"--like it's doing right now!" Hobson finishes, oblivious to Miguel's confusion. The cat has joined him next to the railing, and to it, Hobson mutters, "Yeah, yeah, yeah, any second now, I _know_." He turns back to face the river and before Miguel can stop him, he's clambered up on top of the railing, both arms wrapped around a lamppost. How one guy can look fully determined to leap and terrified to even be on the bridge at the same time is beyond Miguel, but it's Hobson. He contains multitudes, and Miguel doesn't understand a damn one of them.

But he wants the chance to try. He steps closer, hands out to show he's not going to make any sudden moves. "Hobson, look, you're my friend. Whatever kind of trouble you're in, it's not worth this."

"What are you talking about?"

What does he _think_ he's talking about? It hits Miguel that he should be taking pictures, because whatever happens, close-ups of a guy throwing himself off the bridge would land his work on the front page and get Eli off his back for a week at least. But instead of reaching for his camera, he's reaching for Hobson. Again.

"Dios mio, man, don't make me be the one who watches you do this."

"Diaz, I am not here to kill myself. I promise you." 

"Sure as hell looks like you are." Not that he'll succeed; he'll end up on the deck of the Architecture Tour Boat now making its slow, wending way toward their bridge with a few broken bones. He can't even kill himself like a normal person.

Hobson looks downriver again, not down _at_ the river, but downstream, as if he's waiting for something. "You don't want to watch, that's fine with me. Believe me, I don't want you here either. I gotta do this."

One of the guys in the group behind Miguel calls out, "What are you waiting for? Maybe you're right, we'll all be better off without you. Go for it, man. Jump!"

Miguel whirls on him. "The hell are you—"

"Reverse psychology, man. Works every time."

The woman next to him smacks his arm. "It's not working now, _Derrick_!" 

Miguel raises his voice over the engine noise from an approaching speedboat. "Hobson, I swear, there are people who trust you, who need you, as weird as you are." Miguel lunges for him, gets hold of the hem of his jeans.

"Yeah, and one of them's down there. Let go!" Hobson wrenches his leg out of Miguel's grasp and launches himself off the railing. 

The crowd behind him makes a sound like a rush of wind. Before Miguel realizes what he's doing, while Hobson's still in the air, he lifts his camera, as if his viewfinder can capture Hobson and halt him mid-fall, keep him from the churning water.

But he doesn't land in the water. While the camera clicks and whirs, Hobson lands on the back deck of the speedboat in a rolling somersault. He jumps up and lunges forward. Miguel hits autofocus and sees the driver slumped over the steering wheel. Hobson shoves him out of the way and yanks on the wheel, and the boat veers away from a trajectory that would have taken it right into the side of the tour boat, one that probably would have pushed both boats into the bridge pilings. Instead, the motorboat glides into the tour boat company's dock and Hobson throws the ropes to the waiting workers, then kneels down and starts CPR on the fallen driver.

"Whoa," breathes Reverse Psychology Guy as Miguel's camera clicks one last time.

Film spent, the camera bangs against Miguel's chest. He tries to process what he just saw, and what it must mean.

Either Hobson really was trying to kill himself, and ended up saving the driver instead, which meant he had the best worst luck in history, or he'd been up there waiting for an out-of-control speedboat to come along so he could save it in a stunt worthy of a _Die Hard_ movie.

It shouldn't have worked. He shouldn't have known. 

But because it was Hobson, it did, and he had. 

Which meant he'd known ahead of time about an accident no one _could_ have known about beforehand. If it's an inside source driving him to do the crap he does, it's one that knows the future. 

So what does that tell him about Hobson? What does he know now that he didn't before? Only that he gets information before everyone else.

Maybe from his cat, who's gone from the bridge when Miguel thinks to look for it. 

Miguel walks back to his Pontiac debating whether or not he should turn the pictures over to the layout department. Whether or not he should even write the story.

The part about a guy saving two boats and a bunch of tourists from an accident, that he can make interesting. But the part where the guy was able to do it because he knew it was going to happen? How could he make anyone else believe it?

And what does it say about Hobson, about himself, that he _does_ believe the guy knew ahead of time?

* * * * *

WHY

"I'm telling you Eli, this is a waste of time." Miguel parks his car and squints across the parking lot at the entrance to the Field Museum. The place is closing down for the evening; it'll be like swimming upstream to get up the stairs among the droves of families headed for their cars.

"It's called a human interest story, Diaz. You're not above them."

"I broke the story on the cop running a murder for hire ring. Hell, I wrote about my own brother so you could beat the Trib to the chop shop story. I got you exclusive shots of that nutjob who jumped off a bridge to save a tour boat last week—"

"You didn't get me a name."

"I got the _shots_. Shots nobody else had. Now you want me to snap photos of Girl Scouts having a sleepover at a museum?"

"I want something eye-catching for my newspaper, so yes. People've gone crazy for dinosaurs ever since they put that one up in the lobby, what's its name, Sam?"

"Sue," Miguel corrects automatically. "Like the girl's name, but it's supposed to remind you of South Dakota."

"Why would it—never mind. Just get me the shots."

Miguel hangs up his phone and locks his car, then heads across the parking lot, but he doesn't make it to the entrance. Instead, his attention is captured by a small head that butts against his leg as he steps onto the curb. He looks down, and there's a tabby sitting next to his foot. It blinks up at him and puts one impetuous paw on his shoe.

He starts to shake it off. Why should he pay any more attention to a stray cat than to the whirl of seagulls overhead?

Except that it's Hobson's cat; he doesn't know that but he _knows_ , feels it in his gut, every reporter's sense alerted because where that cat goes, Hobson follows. Or maybe it's vice-versa. The cat lets out a "meow" and heads for the side of the museum facing Lake Shore Drive. Miguel hesitates, but not for long, then follows the cat, knowing full well he looks just as nuts as Hobson. 

The ridiculous thing is, following the cat really does lead to a better story than the Girl Scout sleepover. There are a couple of kids—girls in green uniforms--climbing the giant brachiosaurus statue that sits outside the museum. The thing is at least thirty feet tall and they shouldn't be on it, they shouldn't have been _able_ to get on it, but there they are, shimmying one after the other up its neck.

He's not going to waste a shot like this. He snaps the telephoto lens on his camera and zooms in on them. One of the girls freezes and the other bumps into her, and there they are, up close to the head, as still as if they're part of the statue. Miguel's mentally writing a headline-- Daring Dinophiles Brave Brachiosaurus--when something bangs into him. A ladder. A guy in a plaid shirt with a ladder and ropes who grunts an apology without slowing down or stopping to see who he ran into.

"Hobson?" Miguel calls after him. "Hey, Hobson!"

A few yards from the dinosaur's back feet, Hobson turns around, swinging the ladder in a dangerous circle that just barely misses a dinosaur shin bone. "Diaz? What are you doing here?"

"I followed your cat." He tries to play it cool, but Hobson isn't buying it. His eyes narrow and he takes a step toward Miguel, who points his camera and takes a couple of snaps, more to warn Hobson off than anything else.

Hobson's jaw sets, and he looks like he's about to bark something they might both regret, but then one of the kids lets out a terrified wail. "Heeeelllllllp!"

Hobson looks up at her, then back at Miguel. "Look, Diaz, I don't know why you're following me, but will you put that camera down and give me a hand? I got a couple of kids here who aren't going to be able to hold on until the fire trucks show up."

Miguel saw a weather forecast this morning with a high wind warning for the lake; the gusts are already sending leaves and trash scattering along the road. This isn't going to end well unless the kids get down right away. "Okay, fine. But I get—"

"The exclusive story, I know," Hobson mutters as he leans the ladder against the brachiosaur's back leg. "I hate this."

"Hate what? This is what you do, isn't it? Why spend all your time rescuing people if you hate it?"

"I like helping people. I hate heights. Add in kids, never turns out well." He steps onto the ladder and goes up a few rungs, ropes still slung over his shoulder. The ladder sways in the wind, just the tiniest bit, and Miguel sees Hobson's knuckles whiten. Miguel braces his feet in a wide stance and grabs onto the ladder, as if that will somehow keep Hobson from falling. 

"Broke my leg once, that was fun," Hobson grumbles. "'Course, that wasn't the kid's fault, that was the ghost lady. And then out on that other bridge, that was Henry, and that led to—I mean his mother was—" He reaches the top of the ladder and glances down at Miguel. "The point is, there are too many heights in Chicago."

"About to be two fewer kids." 

"How do you know?" Hobson looks startled, again; he often looks that way, Miguel realizes, as if the world itself surprises him on a daily basis.

"The wind is picking up." Miguel gets why Hobson started from the back end of the dinosaur; it's farther away but the thing has bigger front legs and this way his ladder's gotten him almost to the backbone. "But don't worry, you'll be fine," he adds when Hobson's startled look turns terrified. "This thing is built to withstand a Chicago blizzard."

"Yeah, well, I'm not." From below, Miguel can't tell if Hobson's gone even paler than usual, but he can see a slight shake in his legs and arms as he crawls a tentative few feet along the dinosaur's spine. 

"Neither are those kids," Miguel points out. Both girls are crying now. "You want me to come up there, too?"

"No! The last thing I need is another person up here who needs rescuing. Just be ready to catch the kids."

"What, you're going to throw them off? How's that going to help?"

"Of course I'm not. What do you think the rope is for?" And he's off, pulling himself the backbone of the dinosaur, yelling at the kids to hold on, hold on, please hold on.

Miguel takes a few shots of Hobson crawling up the dinosaur, wondering why his antics aren't attracting much of a crowd this time—but then again, if there was a crowd, the kids would never have gotten as far as they are. He can't make out a lot of what Hobson's saying as he makes his determined, if terrified, climb up to them, but once he's in range of the girls his expression—and the set of his shoulders—changes from tense and scowling to something steadier and reassuring, despite the rising wind. Miguel's having trouble snapping anything like a clear shot as the neck sways in the gale force winds. 

Hobson gets the rope around one girl's waist and waves Miguel over to stand below her. He lowers her down at an agonizingly slow rate. As she gets closer, Miguel can hear her whimpering. He doesn't really blame her.

The rope runs out a few feet above Miguel's reach. "What are you doing?" he calls up to Hobson. "Keep going!"

"I can't!" Hobson has his end of the rope wrapped around his hand; he's clutching the statue with his free arm and legs while the other girl sobs, her arms tight around his neck. "The rope's too short!"

Miguel wants to chew him out—would it have killed him to bring a rope just a few feet longer?—but now isn't the time. "Okay, honey," he says to the girl. "You'll have to untie yourself."

"But I'll fall."

"Yeah, you'll fall. And I'll catch you." He holds out his arms. "Come on, kiddo. I've got you. I used to play catcher for the Cubs."

"No you didn't!"

"I could have. I promise you." Arms still outstretched, Miguel takes his eyes off her long enough to share a glance with Hobson, who gives a faint motion that might be a shrug. Hard to tell from this distance. "What, you don't know how to untie a knot?" He asks over the girl's whimpers. "What kind of Girl Scout are you?" 

That makes up her mind. She loosens the knot, holds her arms straight over her head, and drops into his arms. Miguel staggers a little under the sudden weight, but manages to set her on her feet. She's panting, her brown eyes wide. He puts his hands on her shoulders. "You okay? Stay right here and we'll help—hey!" She ducks out of his hold and takes off for the museum. 

He lets her go. Hobson's already hauled up the rope and attached it to the other girl. He's talking a lot more now; she seems to need more convincing. He points to the ground, points to Miguel, then traps her in a death grip hug when another gust of wind pushes at them both.

Okay, not a gust. More like a gale, one that keeps howling off the lake, driving the scent of fish into Miguel's face.

"You gotta get her down now!" Miguel says, super helpfully. He can't see Hobson's eyeroll, but he imagines it. Still talking a blue streak, Hobson pulls her arms from around his neck and starts lowering her down, even slower than the first girl. She screams the whole way. Again, the rope stops short, leaving her dangling, and Miguel tells her to untie the knot. 

"No!" Tears and snot stream down her face as she wavers in the wind. Miguel shuffles a step or two in each direction to stay under her, and not even his best persuasive techniques convince her to let go of her death grip on the rope, let alone untie it.

"Catch her, Miguel!" Hobson calls, just before he jettisons the rope. The girl falls into his arms and the other end of the rope hit the ground.

"What about you?" Miguel calls up. He sets the girl down. "Stay put this time," he tells her, as if it's the same girl all over again.

"Guess I'm going to climb back down." Hobson's shouting over the wind, his voice hoarse and ragged, and the wind gets even stronger. He starts down, vertebrae by vertebrae, makes it to the dip where the neck meets the body, and then freezes. The wind strengthens and curls around itself, knocking the ladder down. It's almost enough to mask the sound of sirens tearing up Lake Shore Drive. 

When they cut off just outside the museum, Miguel's exhortations—"C'mon, Hobson, get down, you can do it!"—are joined by a chorus of Girl Scouts. He turns to see the first girl with a couple of adults and a gaggle of other girls her size. They all call out to Hobson, but he doesn't move. Miguel remembers the way he clutched at the lamp post on the bridge the week before—and how he jumped anyway—and what he said a few minutes ago about hating heights. 

"He's stuck," he tells the firefighters who make their way to them. "I think he's got, what's it, agoraphobia? Fear of heights."

"Acrophobia," one firefighter corrects. "Why's he up there if he doesn't like heights?"

It's a fair question. Whatever he knows, whenever he knows it, Hobson somehow seems to find a courage for others that he can't summon for himself alone. Even now, paralyzed halfway up a brachiosaur, he's turned his head to look at the scouts gathered behind Miguel. 

And that's why, Miguel realizes. Because he wants to help. Possibly he _has_ to help—as long as it's someone else he's helping.

It's only when one of the firefighters, using the megaphone, threatens to grab him in an apple picker that Hobson responds, a definite shake of his head that Miguel can see even in the fading light. Finally, the rescuers inflate a safety platform. Hobson loosens his hold enough to swing his legs over the side of the neck. All he has to do is push himself off—and still, despite the pleas from the firefighters and the scouts, he doesn't do it.  
"Come on, man, I gotta make my deadline," Miguel shouts. He has no idea if Hobson hears him—maybe it's the wind finally numbing his hands so much he can't hold on anymore—but his shoulders droop and then he totters forward and falls, Miguel's shutter clicking all the way down as he tracks the fall. He lands on the platform and bounces a couple times, then seems to come to himself as the firefighters haul him down to solid ground. 

"I'm fine, I'm fine," he stutters at his rescuers, then turns to Miguel. "The girls, are they okay?"

"They're so okay they've blended into the pack," Miguel says, gesturing at the. He has to hand it to them; they don't give up the climbers. "Couldn't pick 'em out of a lineup," he says at Hobson's questioning look.

"What's your name?" the head rescuer interjects. "What were you doing up there?"

"Helping those kids," Miguel answers for him. 

"Who the hell are you?"

Hobson's still shaking so badly he can barely get the words out. "G--G--"

"Larry," Miguel fills in. "Larry Dobson." He's torpedoing his own story; he can never print that name with Hobson's picture. But Hobson is _his_ story, his mystery to solve, and he's not about to leave clues all over the _Sun-Times_ for anyone else—say, Detective Armstrong—to find. 

That doesn't mean he can't use the pictures; maybe they can earn him some bonus points with Hobson. "He saved the kids, look, I'll show you..." Nudging Hobson's ankle with his foot, hoping the guy isn't too far gone to take a hint, he pushes his way into the circle of rescuers and shows them the digital display. "I got it all here, check it out."

Whether Hobson understands what he's done, whether the guy will ever show Miguel a lick of gratitude, Miguel isn't sure. But by the time he's scrolled through the photos and given a long, detailed explanation, Hobson's vanished, leaving his rope and ladder behind. 

Miguel understands a little better now what's going on; Hobson's one of the rescuers, a guy who wants to help other people. He just happens to know what's going on before anyone else. Maybe he's a psychic.

Or maybe his cat is.

* * * * * 

WHERE

He's going to ask. Just walk right up to the guy and ask. Hobson owes him one, after all. 

He published the story about the hero saving the rogue Girl Scouts, but he lied to his editor about getting a useable photo of the guy. "It's the dinos people love. You said it yourself," he told Eli. "Run the cute girls in matching green pajamas standing around the sculpture. The real point of the story is some kids getting away from their leaders and up the Brachiosaurus's neck, not how they got down." It worked, but just barely, and now the stress of trying to figure out and what it is about Hobson that compels otherwise competent journalists and cops to cover for him is making it hard to think about much else. 

So why shouldn't he, Miguel Diaz, who was kicked out of Sunday school for asking Sister Mary Fatima why God didn't wait to give men and women the requisite body parts until they were married, if He was so worried about premarital sex…

…and well, okay, that was probably the straw that broke Sister Mary Fatima's back, but he had to admit there had been a lot before that—anyway, why should he have a problem asking Hobson what the hell his deal was?

He shouldn't, and he's going to do it.

The bar Hobson owns is busy for a weeknight, but not obnoxiously so. People are gathered at tables, in booths, around a pool table in the corner. It's very Chicago—all brickwork and old wood and wavy glass in the windows. There's a comfortable buzz to the place that reminds Miguel more of his Uncle Manny's house, where his family used to gather for sporting events and holidays, and less of the pool halls and smoky, dimly lit dens where the staff of the _Sun-Times_ tends to gather when they socialize.

He's going to go find Hobson and ask, but first, maybe a drink. Maybe a drink in a corner booth, where he can observe, take a few stealthy pictures, get a feel for a side of Hobson he hasn't seen before. The guy isn't out on the floor right now, but he's bound to show up soon. It's his bar.

Unless he's out saving the world again, one runaway Girl Scout at a time.

A waitress—young, blonde, friendly—stops by the table to ask what he wants. Answers aren't on the menu, so he orders a sandwich and a beer. When she brings it back, he asks, "So, Gary Hobson, he's the owner here, right?"

"Yup. Best boss I've ever had." She pulls a napkin-rolled bundle of silverware out of the pocket of her apron. 

"Is there anything…" He rolls his hand, leaving her an opening. She doesn't fill in the space. "…anything different about him?"

Her smile doesn't dim, but it freezes a little at the corners, and she thrusts the silverware toward him. "Like I said, he's the best boss. Doesn't freak out if you clock in a minute late, holiday overtime is double pay, and we get all our meals here free. If you don't think that's different, you've never worked food service." She drops the silverware on the table. "Enjoy your meal!"

The burger's juicy, the fries are hot, the beer's cold. Exactly what Miguel expects of a place like this, but it isn't what he usually gets. He works through his food, taking pictures here and there when he's sure no one is looking: his waitress stopping to chat with the bartender; a couple holding hands across a table; a woman at the end of the bar working on a laptop. He's seen her before, back at the train yard the night Hobson helped catch the cop who'd killed Frank Scanlon. She showed up shortly after it was all over to fuss over Hobson and put him in a cab.

In between bouts with her laptop, with which she uses a pair of oversized headphones, she answers questions from the staff and listens to what's going on at the tables around her. When Hobson emerges from the kitchen, he stops behind her and brushes a hand over her shoulder, says something that makes her laugh. Then he steps behind the bar and starts making drinks—okay, mostly pouring beers—and chatting up the customers. 

Miguel's a reporter, or at least he's supposed to be, so he watches, thinking about what he already knows, what he's already observed, about Hobson. The guy has a good heart, obviously, and he's never met a problem he didn't try to solve, whether or not it was his. He's an acrophobic action hero with an aversion to publicity who seems to know about things before they happen.

That has to be it, right? Some kind of psychic superhero. Except the superhero part doesn't really match up with his reluctance to do what he does or to talk about himself. And it doesn't necessarily go with this bar, where he seems far more comfortable than he does on top of bridge railings and brachiosaurs.

Rather than Batman or Superman, Clark Kent comes to mind; you'd never guess this guy shooting the shit about the Cubs in a lumberjack shirt had once jumped off the Dearborn Street Bridge in a move worthy of James Bond. 

Does that make Miguel Jimmy Olson? No, damn it, he's not just a junior photog destined for annoying sidekick status. He's a photojournalist, writing stories, _breaking stories_ , thanks in large part to Hobson.

He lets out a groan as he realizes he might be Lois Lane. Maybe he doesn't want to know after all.

"Something wrong?" his waitress asks. How long was she watching him watch Hobson?

"Everything's great." He hands her a wad of cash and slips out before Hobson can realize he was here.

* * * * * 

WHO

The rescue operation's been going on for close to four hours by the time Miguel makes it to the school; the storm that necessitated it lasted less than forty minutes. 

"Tornadoes, man. You never know when one's going to come through. They're getting better about pinpointing where they'll hit, but the odds still aren't much better than a crapshoot." Eli's voice through the cell is broken, every other word fading into static. "Doesn't make it any easier to take that this one hit a school."

"Tell me again why anyone lives in this part of the country," Miguel mutters. He was at the hospital in Wheaton, because it was easier to get there through the debris-laden streets, easier to count the stretchers and the walking wounded as they came in, than to go looking for them on his own. But then the school buses came from Adler Elementary and the teachers who were matching parents with kids in the hospital parking lot started frowning at their lists, recounting the waiting kids. They came up short: a dozen missing first graders and one missing aide. Before he could rethink the wisdom of a trip into hell, Miguel was in his Pontiac, dodging fallen branches and what was left of homes and stores that simply weren't there anymore in the fading light. 

He pulls up to Adler, half of him praying he's not too late to get the shot, the other half hating himself for having that thought and hoping the kids are already on the way to the hospital. Much of the school is gone, nothing left but the concrete foundation. The rest is a pile of brick and concrete rubble lit by headlights and the occasional flash of lightning. It's a miracle any kids made it out alive, let alone most of them.

The rescue workers who aren't actively digging in the rubble are clustered around the hood of a DuPage County Sheriff's car, which is serving as a makeshift command center. If any parents know their kids haven't made it to the hospital meeting point, they haven't found their way here yet.

Miguel can't get anyone to talk to him except for the guy who takes one look at his camera and tells him he can't get within thirty feet of the school without a hard hat. "And we don't have a single one to spare, so get out of here."

He backs off but makes his way to a parking lot on the north side of the school, or what's left of it. There are guards there, too, one of whom is arguing with Hobson's friend from the bar. The one who's often around, it seems, when Hobson's antics land him in hot water. After his spy mission at McGinty's last week, he matched up a photo he took of her with one taken at a warehouse collapse a few years ago that trapped Hobson inside. She has a guide dog with her, a golden retriever in a harness and vest, and they're both soaking wet already from the rain that followed the tornado.

"I'm telling you," she insists to the deputy, "he's in there with the kids."

Because of course he is. Miguel should have been looking for Hobson the minute the tornado sirens went off.

"What business does a bar owner from the city have hanging out in a suburban grade school?" the deputy wants to know.

"He went in to help evacuate before the storm started."

"Who is he, some kind of meteorologist?"

"Who he is doesn't matter. He came to help!" Her voice rises over the wind, over the sounds of machinery and sirens. "He's in there now with the kids, and you people are looking in the wrong place."

Miguel can see the damage an inaccurate search would do. If they move rubble to the wrong spot, it could collapse on anyone under it. 

"Lady, you want to talk about being in the wrong place, you are a blind woman looking for your imaginary friend in the aftermath of a tornado," the deputy says wearily, while Miguel snaps a few surreptitious photos of the school behind his back. "I'm trying to find twelve very real first graders and you're getting in the way."

"Look for the cat," Miguel interjects.

"Is Cat here?" The woman turns to him without asking who he is. "If Cat's here, you have to follow him. He can show you where Gary is, and Gary will be with the kids."

"Follow the _cat_?" The deputy turns to Miguel, his face as red as the few streaks of sunset in the grey sky. "Get your friend out of here before she gets hurt."

"Here, come this way." Miguel grabs her arm, and that's a mistake. She pulls free, planting her feet in the damp ground. Damp, but not muddy, not yet, Miguel notes. If they get mud, the structural integrity of what's left of the school is going to get a magnitude worse. "Fine, chica, follow my voice. He's right, we can't stay here." He waits until she reluctantly takes a few steps in his direction, her guide dog at her side, before he adds, well under his breath, "I'll help you find the cat. Or Hobson. Is there any difference?"

Instead of answering, she asks, "You're Miguel Diaz, right? The photographer?"

"Yeah, and you're Hobson's—what? Business partner?" He doesn't ask how she recognizes his voice. If she's half as spooky as Hobson, he probably doesn't want to know.

"Friend," she says, which doesn't tell him a whole lot more than he already knew. "Marissa Clark. He's in there. Can you make them listen to you?"

"Maybe. How do you know he's there?"

"He—he called me before he went in." It's the first time he's heard her stumble, heard her voice catch like that. 

"Before the storm?"

She hesitates again, but nods. 

"Of course he did, of course he just waltzes in there. Why the hell won't anyone tell me how he knows? Is it some kind of state secret?"

"It doesn't _matter_ ," she insists. "What matters is getting all of them out of there before the whole school collapses. And it will. Gary said it will. By dark. Has the sun set yet?"

"Not quite." They stop near some playground equipment that is somehow, miraculously, still standing. "The two of us can't go in there and get him. They're all right, it's too dangerous. Come on, you have to tell me. How did he know?"

"I can't--"

"I will help you talk to them if you promise you'll tell me how he knows." Miguel realizes exactly what a jerk he's being, but at this point he doesn't care. There's no way he's not going to help her, of course, but he's also willing to bargain, just a little bit, to get the answers he's been chasing for months. 

"Fine, but not now. We don't have time. Where is Gary's cat?"

"Haven't seen it yet. What's its name?"

"Cat."

He waits a beat. "Wow."

"Believe me, I know. He said the kids would be under the stage," she insists, and maybe her worry is starting to get to Miguel, because he shivers at the realization that if the stage and everything under it wasn't sucked up in the vortex, it's probably buried in the rubble. "He went in to find them."

"Why would they go there?"

"They're kids." Her voice cracks. "It's small and dark and probably felt as safe as a closet. Did you grow up around here?"

"Nope. New York, mostly."

"Here, we learn that in a tornado, you go to the lowest, sturdiest place you can find, usually a closet or a bathroom, so if the building is destroyed you'll be safe. But they're kids." The cost of being Hobson's friend is written all over her face, etched in furrows over her brow. Her dog sticks close to her side. "I bet they took it to mean hide, as if it's from a monster or something."

"Yeah, well, the monster found them. There's not much left of this school, and what there is isn't exactly in mint condition." As if her concern is contagious, he feels a flutter of panic in his stomach. "If Hobson was here when it happened, he may be--"

"Don't even say it. He's there with them, and they're alive. I know it."

"You sure _you're_ not the cat?"

She rolls her eyes and doesn't dignify that with a response.

"Okay, we're going to get someone to listen to us."

"That's what I've been trying to do for the past hour."

But she goes with him, her guide dog picking out a safe path among the debris for them both back to the command center at the front of the school. The sheriffs have been joined by several fire trucks and ambulances. "I told you to get lost," says the sheriff who first told Miguel he couldn't go in without a hard hat. "Now you come back with—who the hell is this?"

"My assistant."

"You're a photographer and you have a blind assistant?"

"She has amazing intuition. You wouldn't believe how much she can pick up from the shutter speed and the sound of my footsteps. And she's a great researcher," he adds at the dubious looks cropping up as more of the rescuers turn and see them. "She heard the tornado was out here and she looked online. She found out there's a stage in the—in the—"

"In the gym," she fills in. "And the kids are under it." She repeats her story about the well-schooled Midwestern kids looking for the best tornado shelter. "If the gym is still there, you need to look. But be careful, because there'll be rubble and the grounds getting soaked—"

"Okay, okay, fine. We'll look. But the two of you need to stay back."

They're escorted across the street, to a suburban yard that, except for debris from the school, seems to have been untouched by the tornado. A tree still shades the front entrance, and the windows and roof are intact. "Unbelievable," Miguel says, and explains what he's seeing. 

"That's a tornado for you," Marissa says. "You never know where they'll show up. They're completely unpredictable."

"Kind of like Hobson?"

"Maybe." She turns her face toward the school, blinking back the wash of rain. "But really, he's not that difficult to figure out. If there's trouble, he's bound to be around."

"Helping people, even when he doesn't want to," Miguel adds. It's not a question, not anymore.

"That's who Gary is."

"But—why? If he knows how to help, why doesn't he just join the fire department or something?" He leans in closer. "What does he know, and how does he know before it happens?"

She steps back. "It isn't mine to tell." He wonders how many times she's said it before. "Sometimes I wish it was, but it's not. But," she adds, raising a hand as if she can see Miguel's mouth opening to protest, "I will tell you this: as tempting as the mystery around Gary Hobson is, it's not nearly as important as _who_ he is. He responds to that mystery differently than anyone else would, and that's why it comes to him."

"Why _what_ comes to him?"

"I think you know enough to guess that part yourself. If not, keep your eyes open, and you'll figure it out. I'll say something to him, but I can't promise he'll--" She's interrupted by shouts. "What's going on?"

Miguel peers through the rain and dark. Tiny figures are moving away from the rubble, out into the waiting circle of EMTs. "They found the kids. Let's go."

He does take a few shots of the first graders, wide-eyed and wet but unhurt, as one by one they emerge from the tunnel the rescuers have dug through the pile of cinderblock, desks, bookcases, and broken chalkboards the tornado swept up against the stage. By now the television news crews have arrived, and he overhears one of the children telling how a man came and stayed with them in the dark so they wouldn't be afraid while the tornado roared overhead, how he pushed them down and lay on top of them when the stage crumbled around them. 

Because that's what Hobson does. That's who he is, Miguel thinks as he watches the final, tallest figure stumble out of the rubble, limping badly until his friend finds him and lets him lean on her shoulder. They avoid the cameras and head for the street, where they stand talking, or possibly arguing, ignored by the swarm of rescuers who were only ever here for the kids anyway.

Miguel takes one final shot of the rescue operation, focusing in on a trio of kids who are happily sipping Red Cross juice boxes. "There's your human interest, Eli," he says, and lopes over to Hobson and his friend.

"I'm telling you, I parked the Jeep right here at the curb," Hobson's saying. "We just need to find it and we can get out of here."

"How exactly are we going to do that?" Marissa seems almost as exasperated now as she was worried a few minutes ago. "You can hardly walk! How are you going to drive? You should be in an ambulance, Gary."

"You drive, then," Hobson grouses. He's still got one hand on her shoulder; she's right about him not being able to get them very far. "Just gotta find the—Oh, hi, Diaz," he says when he turns to scan the street and sees Miguel. "What are you doing here?"

Miguel touches his camera, but doesn't take off the lens cap. "My job. Like you."

Hobson's scowl softens into bewilderment. "What—"

"When, where, why, and who," Miguel finishes, holding Hobson steady with his gaze. "The five most important questions any photojournalist asks."

"Did you find your answers?" 

Miguel waits for a second, just long enough to make sure Hobson knows he's talking about more than the tornado. "I know enough to file a story," he finally says. "How about I give you a ride home?"

* * * * *

HOW

When Gary walks into the bar, strung out and a little buzzy from a series of rescues that have taken him from one end of the city to the other, not to mention out to the suburbs and back again, his only real plan is to grab a beer and head up to his loft. If things are going well, he won't have to come back downstairs until the paper draws him out tomorrow morning.

But as he passes the bar, one of the drinkers raises his head. "I've got you all figured out, Hobson."

He stops dead. He knows that voice. And as much as one part of him is telling him to just keep walking, to ignore Diaz and forget about the beer no matter how much he needs it, he does owe the guy a thing or two. His name hasn't made it into any _Sun-Times_ articles in a few months, and he knows Miguel Diaz has had a lot to do with that. So he stops.

"You do, huh? And what is it you've figured out?"

Diaz turns to face him. "You. Who you are, what you're doing, why you always show up when shit's about to go down."

Something about his toothy, cocksure grin makes Gary reach for the beer his bartender's already poured for him. "Sounds like you've got quite the theory. And I, uh, I'd really like to hear it." He really, really wouldn't. Except—there's that grin again. He takes a swig of the beer. "I would, but right now I need to—uh—"

"Save a damsel in distress? One you heard about from your cat?"

Oh, great, he's still working on putting two and two together. Pretty soon he's going to come up with the truth. "That's very funny," Gary says, swallowing back rising panic. "Speaking of which, I do need to feed my cat. Excuse me a minute."

He finds Marissa in the office. "We have a visitor. Diaz is here asking questions."

"Miguel's here?" She sets down the sheaf of Braille printouts she was reading. "I want to go say hi."

"Don't do that!"

"Why shouldn't I?"

"You get friendly, he'll start hanging around here. He hangs around here, around me, long enough, he's going to find out about the paper."

She opens her mouth, shuts it, but then opens it again. Of course. Marissa never met an observation she didn't want to launch right at him like a guided missile. 

"What?" Gary asks. Better the hit he's asked for than one that'll come out of nowhere an hour or so from now. "Come on, out with it."

"Would it be so awful if he did find out about the paper?" 

"Meaning what?"

"You could let down your guard around him. Talk to him without all the layers of trying to protect yourself and the paper. You've been lonely since Chuck left. It wouldn't hurt you to have a friend, Gary."

"I have friends. I have you."

"Yes. And?"

"Brigatti, and Armstrong. Crumb!"

"Has it ever struck you as odd that all your friends other than Chuck and me are cops? Maybe you should diversify. What's really holding you back?"

"Reporters are nosy, and that leads to trouble for all of us. Scanlon, Meredith Carson. Harry Hawks. Two out of three got killed because of me."

"We both know that isn't true. You were involved in those events, but you didn't cause them and your work helped catch their killers." She waits while he paces the length of the office—which isn't long at all—then asks, "Has it ever occurred to you that maybe he's lonely too? Maybe that's why the paper keeps bringing you together."

"The paper's not—"

"It could be."

"But I'm not supposed to tell anyone."

"That's a made-up rule. Made up by you," she counters. "If you want to know how to make a friend, Gary, that's the way to do it. Tell him, and see how he responds." She's so sure of herself that he gives up any hope of making his point and heads back out to the bar. He waves Diaz over to a booth, where there's at least a chance half his staff won't hear his secret being revealed.

They settle in with a couple tumblers of Scotch. Turnabout is fair play, so Gary says, "I know what you're up to, Diaz."

Diaz raises an eyebrow, a challenge. "What's that?"

"You're—" Gary breaks off when Cat leaps up on the table between them, sitting on its haunches between Gary and his Scotch. "I—uh—" 

"Need to read the paper?" Diaz finishes as Gary fishes it out from his back pocket. The story's right there on the front page: a four-car pileup on Lakeshore Drive about twenty minutes from now. Gary looks up from the paper. Diaz is watching him, not the paper; Gary can't tell if the guy really knows what's special about his paper or not.

"Actually, I need to head out. Take a walk, or possibly a cab ride. But you can stay here, have another round on the house." Gary's already easing himself out of the booth seat. "Marissa's back in the office. She'd love to say hi."

"Yeah yeah yeah." Diaz stands too. "After we get back."

"We?"

"You, me, and—"

"Not your camera," Gary finishes.

Miguel holds up his hands, then pats his chest. For once, there's not a camera banging against it. "Nope. Your cat." He follows Gary across the room. "I know it has something to do with that cat."

Gary starts to tell him he can't come, to think of something, anything, to get Diaz off his back. But then he realizes he's missed having someone tag along, ever since Chuck left. Much as he hates to admit it, Marissa's right. 

"Let me tell you something about that pain in the ass cat," he says instead of brushing Miguel off, and they head out the front door together.

"Tell me _everything_ about your cat." Miguel nudges Gary's shoulder. "I'm all ears, Hobson. This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship."


End file.
